


Stag and Scorpion

by wynnebat



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Master of Death Harry Potter, POV Original Percival Graves, Pre-Relationship, Protectiveness, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 03:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18490504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: "You're the chosen one," Harry says, a wry, unhappy twist to his lips that Percival doesn't understand. "Congratulations."





	Stag and Scorpion

Autumn arrives with little fanfare. One day, Percival is enjoying loose, light summer fabrics, and the next he reaches for something heavier, having felt a cold breeze the other day. It's a day for dark blues, Percival decides, waving his hand toward his closet, which complies with a touch of magic and clothes with the appropriate color and fabric spring out. Once dressed, his hand hovers over his collection of tie pins. It is quite a large collection, taking up an entire wardrobe, passed down from father to son in his family. Now, there is only one person who carries the esteemed Graves name, and even if he wore a different pin each day, he wouldn't reuse a pin within a year.

"Something appropriate for today," Percival says, allowing the magics of the wardrobe to choose for him. It's a nifty thing, with spells that Percival has never completely understood, but when he allows the wardrobe to choose, it will always choose the right pin.

Today, the stag pin flies into his hand. Percival turns it over twice, humming as he tries to remember if the wardrobe has ever offered this pin. It hasn't.

By the end of the day, Percival might understand the reason for it, but for now he attaches it to his collar and continues with his morning. After a light breakfast and two cups of coffee, a third in his hand, Percival apparates from his home to the DMLE's apparition station. It's early enough that most of his department is still waking up. Percival bypasses their empty desks and offices, heading for a meeting with Seraphina. Something about yet another interview she wants him to give, rousing the country against the alarming tide of pro-Grindelwald sentiment.

It is his honor to work as director of the DMLE, but Percival could do with a few less problems in his life. When he first took the job five years ago, it was under the assumption that the then-small growth of propaganda would fade. Now, it's all that MACUSA can do to hold their ground against the storm. Percival has put in as much time and energy as possible into it. Seraphina and her cabinet have done the same.

"You don't have anything to do with my stag pin, do you?" Percival asks as their morning meeting ends.

Seraphina shakes her head. After two decades of mentorship and friendship and occasional sex, she knows Percival's wardrobe well, but it seems this particular pin has nothing to do with her. "My family's crest features the eagle."

"Unimaginative of you," Percival comments, and laughs as Seraphina kicks him out of the office.

"Your pins aren't any better than that divination nonsense," she calls after him.

Stags are male deer, large, majestic animals that Percival has rarely seen as an adult. He spends little time in the countryside, his childhood home dark and empty, abandoned in favor of his home on a quiet street off the center of the city's magical district. What he knows of deer is that their antlers fall off and regrow, and thus perhaps the pin is a symbol of Percival's life entering a new stage? He thinks on it idly in the scant free time he has during the day, when he cannot concentrate on reports and active projects for one moment longer.

Seraphina may be right in that it is divination. Percival imagines opening a divination studio when working in government finally drives him out of his mind. He would be a terrible seer; he can't even figure out what this stag is supposed to mean.

At around eleven, there is a knock on his door.

"There's someone here to see you, sir," says Tina Goldstein, opening the door halfway. "He says it's a matter of great importance. It's about Grindelwald."

Percival raises an eyebrow. "Do you believe him?"

Tina shakes her head, but she takes a moment to think it through. "It _could_ be possible. In theory."

"In theory, pigs may fly. Send him in." Percival lifts his wand to place an obscuring charm over the papers on his desk and leans back in his chair. His first impression of the man who enters his office is favorable, if for reasons Percival wouldn't immediately admit. The man's robes are of a curious cut, high-quality, shimmering wizarding fabric that Percival can almost see the defensive spellwork weaved into the cloth, and his gait is confident and smooth. Dark hair, bright green eyes behind circular glasses, mid to late twenties, a scar on his forehead that's striking without being unattractive.

"Percival Graves," the man says in a British accent and a nice voice, which also isn't bad. "I'm here to tell you that you will be kidnapped by the dark lord Gellert Grindelwald today. Please be on your guard. We're not positive of when he will attempt to abduct you, but it is likely that he will break into your home."

"Really. And how did you get this information?"

"I'm a time traveler," the man says, quite seriously. "I know you won't believe me—of course you won't—but please, try to take me seriously. You have to be careful today."

Percival sighs, some of his interest evaporating. A nutter, it must be. Percival isn't twenty, to flirt with someone at the office, or with someone who doesn't seem to be at peace with reality. Rather dryly, he says, "Thanks for the tip."

He glances toward the window to the hallway, where Tina pretends she isn't looking, and motions for her to come inside and escort the man off of their floor. He'll have to see about why the man hadn't been vetted properly by security; he shouldn't have been able to get all the way up here with his purpose being so ludicrous. When Percival looks back at the spot in front of his desk, the man is gone.

It's only then that Percival takes him seriously. Not about the time travel, heavens no, but this level is warded against portkeys and apparition to the highest degree. It's the level of the director and other senior officers at the DMLE. There should be no possibility of something like that.

"Sir," Tina says, her eyes wide. She doesn't say anything more.

Percival rubs his temples. "Fix it."

"I'll find security," she says, already on her way.

In the end, there is nothing to find. For all intents and purposes, the man ghosted his way through to the office of the director of the DMLE. His only other point of contact being Tina, who'd been dropping off a report with the head auror. Neither hide nor hair of the intruder can be found anywhere in the building. It's professionally infuriating and personally intriguing, but Percival puts it out of his mind. He doesn't have the time or the patience for problems he cannot solve. He barely even has time for problems that he _can_ solve.

Morning turns to afternoon, then evening. Percival doesn't leave his office except for lunch. When he does, he pulls out some of his stationary protective spells and digs an amulet out of the back of his drawer. It's not about Grindelwald, who is based in Germany and to Percival's knowledge hasn't entered the States this decade. The idea of being personally targeted by a dark lord seems vain. If anyone will be targeted, wouldn't it be the president herself?

Still, there is a man who can sneak through anti-apparition wards, and that is reason enough to be careful.

The amulet is still around his neck when he apparates home. Percival's attention rests solely on his work, but he was an active auror for nearly twenty years before stepping into the role of director of the entire department. He hasn't allowed his skills to languish. The amulet is hot against his skin, its protective magics kicking in. With incredulous wariness, Percival takes a few steps forward.

A man whose face Percival has only seen in newspapers and reports sits at the dining room table. "Percival Graves. How very nice to meet you."

"I can't say the same," Percival replies, not lowering his wand from the man's head.

"Is that really how you want to do this?" Grindelwald asks. He sounds put out, but amusement laces his voice. "You could hear out my offer instead. It won't hurt."

His offer is ludicrous. Percival says so plainly. His grip on his wand is tense. Grindelwald is feared around the world; Percival has read dozens of reports on his expert dueling skills and his propensity toward neat, violent solutions. With any luck, Percival will be able to get away from him. With perhaps a little more luck, he may be able to take Grindelwald down, but he won't count on it. He needs backup. He needs—

Grindelwald's first spell flies through the air. Instead of hitting the amulet's protective shielding, a true shield forms in front of him. Percival doesn't dare turn his head. From the corner of his eye, he can see the now-familiar man from earlier.

"Sorry, he's in protective custody," the man says. Percival has never been happier to receive backup, no matter that it's a suspicious stranger. The green-eyed man's wand firmly faces Grindelwald and his tone is just as firm, unyielding in the face of Grindelwald's darkness. With his other hand, the man reaches out and wiggles his fingers. Percival doesn't feel nor see an magic, and yet Grindelwald's wand flies from his grip. "Hello," the man says, and it takes Percival a moment to realize he's talking to the wand now in his hand. "I haven't missed you."

Grindelwald asks the question on Percival's tongue. "Who _are_ you?" A second wand neatly slips into his hand from a hidden holster, one whose handle is nowhere near as intricate or the wood as dark.

"His bodyguard," the man says, taking a step closer to Percival and looking him over for injuries. "This man is under my protection. You won't touch a single one of those perfectly coiffed hairs."

That's very nice and all, but Percival takes this moment to shoot a stunner Grindelwald's way. With Grindelwald using a secondary wand and with protection in the form of a man who he will temporarily trust, there is a much better chance than before that Percival will be able to take him. He ducks to escape Grindelwald's responding spell and yells an order Harry's way as he would one of his aurors. Harry nods, his expression set and both knuckles white around the two wands. Spell-light casts the kitchen in a multicolored glow and Grindelwald's spells become more destructive and desperate. The dining room table is a loss, as are the cabinets. Grindelwald is as good of a duelist as his reputation paints him and the best duelists know exactly when to flee. He escapes, blasting through both the house's large windows and its wards, and then he is gone.

Percival stares at the spot that he vanished from, panting and catching his breath. He can't seem to find it. He was attacked by Europe's feared dark lord, personally singled out by him. It is unthinkable. He casts a repairing charm over the window as a temporary measure. It will still need to be properly fixed, but today is not that day. When he turns back, his self-appointed bodyguard is still there. His hands are bare, both wands out of sight. Percival sheathes his own.

"Coffee," Percival says, even if it's probably the last thing he needs with the adrenaline coursing through him. "And I want proper answers this time." It terrifies him that the proper answer might truly be that this man has traveled in time. No one should hold that much knowledge.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"Start with your name," Percival offers, leading the way to the kitchen.

"Harry Potter."

Percival nods. The name means next to nothing to him. It's a British pureblood line that didn't last long in the States. An Abraham Potter was one of MACUSA's original twelve aurors, but he died young. There's a Potter in the Wizengamot, which Percival only knows due to some half-remembered family drama a decade ago, and the Potter that's the creator of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion. "Any relation to Fleamont Potter?"

"He's my grandfather," Harry reveals.

"He's barely out of Hogwarts," Percival replies, remembering the back of the potions flask. And yet the resemblance is undeniable. Standing side by side, both messy-haired and strong-jawed, the two of them could be brothers. 

Harry hums. "I hope I can meet him. You're not going to Britain anytime soon, are you?" At Percival's incredulous look, he says, "You can't expect me to leave your side, so we'll have to go together."

The coffeepot whistles loudly to signal its readiness. Percival pulls out the largest mug he has for himself and another one for Harry. He has no milk and his sugar is probably stale, wherever it is, so he doesn't offer either as he slides the coffee to Harry. As impressive as Harry's battle skills were, he casts no spells over the drink to verify that it’s only coffee. Harry seems to trust Percival. It's an interesting observation that Percival has no idea what to do with. He has no idea of what to do with any of it.

"If you are a time traveler—and that's a big if—then you've completed your mission by saving me from being kidnapped. That doesn't mean you have to stay by my side. I was an auror and am now the director of the entire division. I know how to take care of myself."

Harry shakes his head at that. "It's not that. I know you can take care of yourself. I've done a lot of research into your past. But just because you can take care of yourself doesn't mean that you don’t need someone to watch your back in situations like this. You would have died today if not for my intervention."

It's difficult to trust Harry's absurd story to be true, but there is one thing that Percival does trust: he would have lost without Harry at his back. Whatever Grindelwald wanted from him, whether it be his information or his influence, he would have gotten in. And instead, he sits here drinking coffee across from a man who stole the wand of the darkest man of their era. Absurd. Amazing.

A question nags at him. "You traveled how many years for this?"

"Seventy-eight."

"For _this_ ," Percival repeats, honestly flabbergasted. He has no issues of esteem or confidence; he values himself quite highly and he knows he has done quite a lot for the people of his country. If he has to quantify it, he would say that he's had a net positive effect on crime and on the lives of others. But to the extent that someone who's never met him, who exists decades away in time from him, would save his life? Impossible. "How could I be that important?" Percival asks, furrowing his brow. "You have to understand that while I am important in my own sphere, I am not historically important, nor even globally."

Harry takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face, but doesn't comment on the taste. "We weren't expecting that, either." He pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts before deciding to simply say it. "Magic is dying in the future. It started in Britain, but it has already extended throughout Europe and we couldn't find a solution to it. We didn't have the time, since even the best of us were running out of magic. I was a British auror before we packed up and fled to the States, where we—and I say we, but it was mostly my bloody brilliant best friend—created a device that judged all of human history and searched for a turning point to change the tide. Your name and this exact date came up. You're the chosen one," Harry says, a wry, unhappy twist to his lips that Percival doesn't understand. "Congratulations."

Percival is at a loss for words. "This is madness."

"This is the fate of the magical race," Harry tells him, leaning forward in Percival's old kitchen stool. "We will do everything in our power to create a different future."

When nothing makes sense, ask for specifics. "Who is we?"

Harry looks a little shifty at that. "There's a whole team of us. The others are just taking care of things back in Britain. We thought it would be good to ease you into this." When Percival says nothing and the silence hangs around them, Harry sheepishly adds, "And I wanted to meet you first. I mean." He waves a hand. "Have you met you? I wasn't nearly as—prepared—when I got thrown into my own destiny. There was a dark lord, yada yada, not important. That's all the future. Right now, if the device thinks that something you do is going to save the world, you need to be in the best possible place to do it. We're a year away from the election, and we're going to make you president. You need to complete your vision."

"I don't have a vision." Or rather, he doesn't have a specific vision. There are of course many things that Percival would accomplish had he had the time, power, and people for the job. The same things that Harry seems to be handing him on a silver platter. It's too easy, all of this.

Harry doesn't look perturbed at Percival's sudden lack of ambition. "It's okay, you'll figure it out. We'll help. You haven't even met Hermione yet—she's very good at telling people what to do."

"The only person who tells me what to do is Seraphina, and even that's in name only," Percival tells him. He gives up the ghost of propriety, rubbing his temples and taking a deep breath. When he looks up again, Harry meets his gaze with such a knowing, sympathetic expression that Percival has the strange urge to put a closed door between the two of them. He doesn't. He won't flee from anything, not even this madness. "I'll need proof of all of this."

"We have it."

"That's what I'm afraid of." When he'd placed the stag pin on his collar this morning, this is nowhere near the direction he expected his day to go. Percival already has a feeling he knows what the answer might be, but he says, "I don't suppose stags mean something to you."

A momentary confusion crosses Harry's face. "My patronus is a stag. How did you know?"

Percival laughs, and if there is a hysterical tint to it, Harry doesn't comment. He reaches out carefully, slow enough that Percival can move away if he wants. Percival doesn't. Harry pats his shoulder gently.

"It will be alright," Harry says. "I'll make sure of it."

All his life, Percival has protected others. It's strange to hear an offer of protection from someone unknown, stranger yet that Percival is beginning to believe him. He'll ask for proof later, but for now, he takes one breath after another. Harry's hand is warm and firm, and Percival lets it steady him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [tumblr](https://wynnefic.tumblr.com/).


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